A Flap of a Dragon's Wings
by Iora Blacklink
Summary: A story is only a moment in time, and time flows endlessly. It curves with the riverbank of existence and shifts to avoid the riverbed rocks of sentience. Every choice a sentient being makes is another pebble in the river; every choice affects the flow of time in noticeable ways. If the choice of a being unconnected to the story is changed, time, and the story itself, are altered.
1. Liquid Eternity

**Disclaimer: The Inheritance Cycle belongs only to Christopher Paolini, and it is an honor to be able to play in the sandbox of Alagaesia that Paolini created.**

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There was not, nor was there ever, a word in the Ancient Language for _time_. This word's disappearance was not like the name of the language itself. _That_ particular word simply was forgotten. The Grey Folk, the creators of the language, knew it, but their successors never heard of it.

The word _time_ was different from all of the rest. In a language where all words held the existential summary of their translations, untold power was contained in each syllable; the strength of the force of comprehension enabled magicians to use those words to great effect. Light and fire deferred to their commands, and the earth and sky themselves bowed.

Time, however, refused to be contained. The intense complexity of its being simply could not be touched by living or by dead, by mortal or by immortal. No, the language of existence never had a word for time. _Month_ and _day_ and _second_ could not be translated. Instead, Common was used in any instance when time needed to be referenced. Small bursts of short, simple syllables decorated the flowing speech of the Ancient Language.

Even the Earth herself did not understand time. She began, and she would end. Time was the only force in the universe that could touch eternity and the only force that could never be named or controlled by those that spoke the language of creation. Time was a liquid compared the solidity of concrete items and the gaseous state of abstract ideas. It did not flow as chaotically as trains of thought, and it did not sit and simply exist like rocks and trees did.

The past was a drenching downpour of a temporal waterfall filled with debris of memory while the future was a bending, churning, indistinct whirl of dazzling whitewater and terrifying sharp obstacles. The present simply sidled along lazily, a river ignoring all the rocks underneath and flowing ever onwards in an inexplicably slow fashion.

Time ignored the rocks in its path and pretended that they weren't impeding it in the slightest, but the very laws of physics contradicted it. The rocks did, in fact, impede the inexhaustible pressure of the golden temporal river, for no two objects could exist in the same space at the same time. It was physically, and temporally, impossible for _that_ particular event to occur.

In this way, the rocks directed the flow of the river in near-unnoticeable ways. Differing amounts of obstacles meant that the river eroded away at different points of the bank. These were miniscule differences compared to the immense enormity of time, but they were still differences. Different placements of rocks or sand changed how the river flowed. The consistency of the dirt dropped by the riverbank colored the liquid in different ways. Eddies and currents shifted with the changing heights of obstacles and water temperatures.

Riverbed rocks didn't stop their rivers from flowing, but they did change how the rivers flowed. Nothing could stop time from flowing, but sentient beings could change how it flowed, for thought, in its airy way, flitted back and forth in a very changeable fashion. Rocks fell into rivers and forced the waters to part around them. Sentient beings changed their minds and forced sequences of events to turn themselves inside out.

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Everyone knew the timeline of events that led to the defeat of the Rider King Galbatorix and his dragon Shruikan by a hunter called Eragon and his dragon Saphira. Everybody knew that the First Forsworn, Morzan, earned his title by procuring a hatchling dragon for the not-then-king. All those who heard these tales knew that the hatchling's proper Rider was killed.

Few, however, remembered the dragon attack on Ilirea by Halhul Stormscales after rampaging Urgals slaughtered his kin. Few understood that, in his grieved rage, one civilization of two-legs seemed a lot like another; few knew what events would be kindled from the ashes of the houses burnt and families torn. Few knew that it was a close decision when he chose to fly to Ilirea to inflict flames upon the people there…

The wind cared little for temporal continuity, so, in another time, a different past, it shifted the slightest bit, and a flight to Ilirea became a little less desirable. The scales tipped, and Halhul twisted on a wing and veered off towards Brodding City, reveling in a temporary updraft before diving as a blur toward the ground. His wings flapped at the last moment, pulling him out of the dive to avoid impact.

With a turn of the wind, a dragon headed in a different direction.

With one altered choice, a small stone fell into the river, impeding its flow and leading it astray.

With the flap of a dragon's wings, something much greater than a hurricane was born, and the story changed.

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 **Author's Note: This is my first published story on Fanfic, so,** **if I am ever to become better at writing,** **criticism is necessary. Please give me feedback in a review.**

 **Origin of Names: Halhul means "grief" or "looking for grief," and grey seems like it would be a fitting color for a dragon that becomes consumed by grief. Since Saphira is referred to as "Saphira Brightscales," it seemed sensible that some other dragons might have similarly formatted titles.**


	2. Descent of Grief

**Disclaimer: Christopher Paolini owns the Inheritance Cycle. I do not.**

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If one was trying to determine the source of a problem, there were no innocents. Everybody involved with the problem was at fault in some form. Everybody that helped to create the dilemma was responsible in some way. The rise of Galbatorix to the throne was an example of this. Though it was, of course, unquestionable that Galbatorix himself would shoulder the majority of the blame, the choices of other helped mold him into the madman that he became.

It was difficult to find the first who made a mistake. It might have been the teachers of Galbatorix and his friends; they, who knew their students best, should have known that the apprentices were reckless. Some measure of care should have been taken in order to deflate egos and cockiness before sending new Riders off into a world where they would be expected to be perfect negotiators, peerless warriors, and skilled healers.

Clearly, as the friends counterattacked the Urgals without attempting a peaceful resolution, were unable to protect themselves adequately, and ended up dying, they were neither of the first two. Their skills as healers could not be remarked upon, for, though Galbatorix was unable to save his dragon in the end, an enchanted arrow to the heart didn't seem like something that could be healed anyways.

It might have been the fault of Jarnunvösk herself for being killed. Certainly a fully trained dragon should have had the ability to kill her enemies without being killed herself. Several dragons were present, and they should have been able to make more of a difference.

Perhaps it was partially the fault of the Rider Elders as well. After all, they had no right _whatsoever_ to interfere with a dragon's choice of Rider. They could have allowed Galbatorix to be tested by other eggs. There wouldn't have been any worry necessary that Galbatorix would somehow be able to corrupt or interfere with a dragon's choice. If he was worthy enough to be the Rider of Jarnunvösk, he might have been worthy enough to be the Rider of some other dragon; if the Elders feared that he was mad, then it was highly improbable that an infant dragon would choose him anyways, and, then, there would be no harm done to anybody. There was no law stating that a Rider only could have one dragon. Bonded dragons rarely died in those times, and, in most of those rare cases, the threat that killed the dragon would kill the Rider.

It was the fault of Morzan and the remaining Forsworn for listening to Galbatorix.

The Riders could have banded together and given a better fight against fifteen rogues before they gained too much influence. Honestly, fifteen! There were hundreds of Riders, many that would have been much older and more experienced than Galbatorix in particular and probably better than most of the other Forsworn as well, but they all fell so easily to a boy who had an unusual talent for breaking into minds and his probably less-than-intelligent band of thugs. It was a disgrace!

It was the fault of the elves and the dwarves for not helping the Riders more and the fault of the humans for not taking more of a stand _before_ Galbatorix struck towards their throne. It should have been fifteen Riders against the entire assembled forces of Riders, elves, dwarves, and men. Perhaps even the Urgals should have joined in; they should have known of Galbatorix's particular enmity towards them.

Where were the werecats in all this? Were they all sitting and drinking cream, resolving not to interfere until there was _only_ _one 'good' Rider and dragon left_? Lunacy! And the spirits? They could turn plants into precious stone with seemingly little effort, but they couldn't be bothered to interfere in _any_ helpful fashion when a madman was creating a _Shade breeding ground_ of a country. The hundreds upon hundreds of wild dragons just decide, _let's make the traitors, and_ only the dragons _, by the way, not remember their own names; that would be incredibly useful._ Against the full forces of the entire _country_ , Galbatorix and his ilk wouldn't have had a _prayer_ of success. But he won easily. _Easily_!

And Vrael! Galbatorix was a madman that needed to be put down. It didn't matter how guilty or merciful the almighty Leader of the Dragon Riders was feeling; insanity cannot comprehend a _gracious defeat_. Vrael almost _deserved_ his fate.

Umaroth should have been able to _decimate_ Shruikan in a duel no matter how large he was, Shruikan was barely more than a hatchling. He had _no idea_ how to fly or do really _anything_ in a fight. In the air, size was more of a hazard than anything else. Umaroth's greater agility and experience should have enabled him to do much more.

When Galbatorix began forcibly recruiting Eldunari, they should have banded together and _crushed_ that upstart usurper's mind to _dust_. Many dragons of various sizes and powers, all united with a powerful sense of fury towards the man who had killed many of their Riders, should not simply have been mentally swatted away like irritating gnats.

Basically, a problem was the responsibility of anybody who knew that it was a problem. There were no _innocent bystanders_ , and there was nobody that was not at fault if they failed to deal with the problem before it became a catastrophe.

Galbatorix was a catastrophe. What would happen to a certain Rider-Dragon pair because of the consequences of one female dragon's death would be a tragedy beyond measure.

Problems left idle piled up and fell on people all at once. They stacked up until they could easily bury Alagaesia itself, and then they smugly did so. They had to be dealt with _as soon as they appeared_ , no later, but many of them weren't. Thus, tragedies and catastrophes were born. Sometimes, _catastrophic tragedies_ appeared.

* * *

 **Forty years before Jarnunvösk's death and Galbatorix's madness...**

* * *

The particular problem that led to the demise of Halhul's family was part isolation, part happenstance, and part foolishness. Caparina and her mate lived quite far from the rest of dragonkind; they preferred the quiet in the undiscovered wilds of the world to the cacophony of the traditional Hatching Grounds. Only a week ago, they had given one of their eggs to the Riders. This egg was a dark grey, near black, shade that mirrored the scales of its father.

The dragon in this egg was important, very much so, but, through the unknowing actions of its sire, it would become part of the ensuing catastrophic tragedy along with the Rider it would choose.

They had three other eggs in this clutch, one the mother's orange, one a dazzling blue, and the other an ember dapple of orange and grey. The sapphire blue egg was also very important. In the next age, the child of the dragon within the blue egg would be essential. Halhul had inherited his dark scales from his great-great-grandsire Raugmar the Black.

The other eggs would contribute to the sequence of events that would eventually become the tragedy. They would never meet their surrendered sibling; they would scarcely be able to meet each other. Their participation in the problem would be parallel to that of Jarnunvösk.

The three remaining eggs hatched after only a week, but the dragonling within the dark one would not hatch for quite some time.

During the next three weeks, Halhul hunted while Caparina watched over the hatchlings. They were not yet able to fly, so Caparina guarded over the nest while her mate found food. Halhul was a skilled hunter, but he enjoyed flight too much, even for a dragon, so he went further than was necessary in order to locate food. He would be away for only a day.

Problems generally began because of something like this; irony loved tragedy, so a dragon's love of the sky became deadly for his family. So, a preference for quiet isolation turned into an inescapable trap. There was no real bait in this trap. The silence and the charming surroundings were the bait. The dragons had sprung the trap simply by being in the area, and Urgals converged.

It was the greatest honor to be able to face a dragon for one's test. Massive cave bears were to be faced without weapons, but, if there were dragons in the area, it was permissible to bring _enchanted_ weapons. Dragonslaying was a rather barbaric but popular tradition; Urgals lived for killing. The best killers were the ones who were most likely to survive. Sentient or animal, they could and _would_ attack.

The saddest part was that only most of Alagaesia's peoples saw dragons as the intelligent beasts they were. Riders, elves, werecats, spirits, and dwarves were well aware of the sentience of dragons. The general population of humans didn't know, and the humans had Riders among them; therefore, they had more knowledge of dragons than Urgals did.

So, it was unlikely that the Urgals of the time knew that they were attacking dragons that were just as smart as they were. The Herndall and the Urgal war chiefs would have known, but these were relatively young. If an Urgal went into a cave bear's den after killing the bear and found cubs, they would probably kill the cubs as well in order to prove that the bear was a ferocious mother protecting her children; this way, they would be more renowned for killing the bear. In the minds of the Urgals, this was much the same thing, except dragons were much more dangerous than bears, and they would get a lot more credit for killing them.

When Halhul returned, he could only sense the mind of the shivering blue dragonet from where she had hidden underneath the waters of a nearby lake, where she had been playing before the Urgals appeared. A smoldering ruin of a forest was all that remained of the trees that he had called home. There were no traces of the Urgals, and no draconic bodies to be cremated in accordance with tradition.

The young blue dragoness flapped towards him from the lake, not even unsteady on untested wings. First flight was the traditional naming day of dragonets. It should have been a day for pride and joy, but it was not. Only the youngest of his children yet lived, and his mate…his mate was gone. He had hoped that Caparina would help him to name their children; now, he was alone with only one child to name. The ceremonial recitation thrummed through his mind, and he projected it to the world.

 _I call upon the heat-of-ash of the First Fires, upon the molten-ground-fire, upon the Earth's heart-of-hearts. Hear me, and hear my child Vervada, Stormcleaver, called so for her sharp, gale-cut wings and first-flight-glide. May her scales reflect the clear skies she will reach above the storm._ Halhul then scooped his daughter up in gentle claws and leaped into the air with a shove of his back legs. Vervada might have been a natural flier, but she was still only a hatchling.

Together yet alone, father and daughter fled what once had been their home. It was no longer safe.

However, while Vervada wallowed in confused squeaks as they flew, Halhul's acute grief descended into agonized fury.

 _Two-legged murderers_. The nearest settlement he knew of was many miles away, but he remembered where it was. There were two different large ones nearby, in fact, and the flight of a dragon over country often remained unremarked upon. Riders had to fly, after all. The two-leg creatures would never suspect a thing.

The only choice that remained was _which_ group to head for. Halhul felt for the wind and predicted possible flight paths. One path would have a tailwind, but that settlement was further away. As Halhul decided to advance upon the city known as Ilirea, the wind changed. Neither of the paths would have an advantage of speed, so he changed direction in midair and dove, hearing Vervada's childish squeaks of delight. He extended his wings and banked sharply seconds before he would have encountered the ground.

Now he was only a mile outside the settlement, and he descends to gently place Vervada on the ground, impressing thoughts of _stay_ before taking flight yet again.

He did not know of the Rider on a healing mission in order to save the child of another being, a man known as Rin.

He did not know that, if he were acting out another problem, he would be playing the part of Galbatorix, obsessed with revenge. He did not know that he would be acting the part of the Urgals and becoming directly responsible for the death of another being's family. He did not know that he was a villain in this story, not a victim.

If he had known what suffering he would bring to his remaining kin, he would not have glided for the city called Brodding like an eagle hunting over grasslands.

If only he could have known the purpose of the presence of the Rider that would be forced to kill him, he might have made a different choice than he did. However, he did not know, and he did not make a different choice.

With the first rippling pennant of dark flames loosed towards the buildings, the pebble in the river became a boulder.

* * *

 **Author's Note: So, the second chapter is at least two times longer than the first. It's the real first chapter of the story; _Liquid Eternity_ is more like a prologue. **

**In _Liquid Eternity_ , I feel like I was quite heavy-handed in the foreshadowing of what the 'catastrophic tragedy' to come actually _is_ , and _Descent of Grief_ only elaborates upon the foreshadowing. I most likely feel like that because I am the author and already know what the tragedy is going to be. If you figure it out, kudos to you.**

 **Origin of Names: Vervada is an important canon character, I looked up names that meant butterfly (as in the butterfly effect) and Caparina was one of the girl names, and Rin just seems like the right name to give the yet-to-be-introduced character that was briefly mentioned in the fifth-to-last paragraph of the chapter. The city of Brodding is based off the Broddering Kingdom.**

 **Review and give feedback, please.**


	3. Warrior Healer

**Disclaimer: Christopher Paolini owns the Inheritance Cycle; it does not belong to me; the only characters I have** ** _completely_** **invented so far are Rin and Vervada's two deceased siblings; they are never stated to canonically exist. If Christopher Paolini were to express his displeasure with the existence of fanfiction works based on his works, I would remove this as soon as possible. Brooding, during the reign of Galbatorix, is renamed as Bullridge; as he overthrew the Broddering monarchy, I don't see him wanting to remind people of the fact. Halhul and Caparina lived in the mountains in the middle of the Hadarac desert.**

Explanation (aka reason why no fan of IC has heard of Halhur and Caparina): Vervada is explicitly canon, and, implicitly, she must canonically have parents, so I guess that I just gave them names and personalities. Her remaining brother is actually canon (though his family isn't explored in canon, so I suppose their relation to each other is not canonical), and his Rider is canon as well, though the Rider is not mentioned by name or specified by gender but simply stated to have existed.

* * *

At the very moment that the first building caught fire, a elven Dragon Rider by the name of Kelran and his draconic partner Isol first caught sight of the outskirts of Brodding from their location high in the air.

They were there to answer a request for healing; in one of the buildings on the side of Brodding opposite to them, the side that Halhur had come from, there lived a young man called Rin, his wife, and their ailing, three-year-old boy, who, every winter, was wont to contract the nastiest illnesses. As a particularly violent onslaught of pneumonia had ensued the previous winter season, Rin had written to the Riders for assistance just before the end of fall. A healer had been immediately dispatched to cure the illness, but it turned out that the ailment was much more complicated than anybody had realized, so the healer had sent for Kelran.

Kelran himself was one of the most naturally talented healers that the Riders could claim. He had even gone so far as to take on a second apprenticeship focused on healing after he had graduated to become a Junior Rider. Though Isol himself was warrior-born, not even a mighty dragon could disagree with the idea of using flames to light fires that would kindle life.

Since Kelran had been the nearest talented healer in the area, as he had been training in the Spine by himself while his teacher attended a council meeting, when the request for aid had been sent, he and Isol had headed for Brodding with all the speed they could muster.

He had come only to heal an ill child, and Isol's warm heart and fiery strength had been prepared to back him all the way; as he headed towards Brodding,Kelran never intended to do harm to anybody or anything. Even the dragon himself, though possessing every iota of the ferocity and battle-readiness of his race, had never expected to use the warmth of his heart to lend fuel to his flames. Neither of them had expected to use their strength for anything but healing. But such was the nature of a tragedy, and, as such, healers would become tested warriors today for the first but not last time. They would do harm; they would kill. And they would loathe every moment of it. Such was a healer's way, but, sometimes, to save the entire body of an organism, infected flesh must be cut loose. And they would also loathe themselves for thinking of it like that.

This would mark the first time that Rider and dragon would fly in aerial combat against another dragon for a very long time. There were still the rare skirmishes with the Lethrblaka, but that was not the same thing at all. Those creatures could not begin to comprehend true sentience; all they could feel was rage and hunger, at times pain and fear. As predators, they were the most intelligent and well-equipped to hunt, but they were animals; they were also devoid of the fiery rage dragons could erupt from their maws. A fight on dragon back against another dragon and/or rider was a very deadly dance, smooth yet quick, with every movement blurring into the next. Minds raged in a war of wills even as the battle of the skies took place. There was nothing else like it.

This would also mark the first elf to become a Dragonslayer since the days of old, and Kelran would carry the agony of the title to his grave. It would be until the war had nearly ended that the second would earn her title. Dragonslaying is personal. If it is truly to be defined as such, it must be carried out by a person or elf. A rider whose dragon slays another dragon in combat would not earn it. Kelran would. Arya would. Most, if not all, of the Forsworn would, though, by that time, those traitors would have already been rejected by their respective races.

After the event itself, the Rider Council had wanted to believe that another rider and dragon battle of the skies against another dragon would not occur for many centuries, perhaps even after the participants had retired to seclusion. They would be wrong.

Brodding was an elegant enough city, though it paled in comparison to the spires of Ilirea, deceptively delicate by sight but, in fact, quite strong. Most human cities paled in comparison to those of the elves. The stones used to make the unearthly towers had been sung from the ground by some of the more skilled elven spellweavers; they were more woven together than stacked crudely to become bricks. Not that there was anything particularly crude about Brodding. It's sewage system was state-of-the-art, and it's poor district was nearly visually indistinguishable from the other buildings, though, of course, Kelran and Isol were far above them and, therefore, couldn't distinguish much of anything.

Anything but billowing smoke coming from the city's eastern side and the black-grey herald of death whose wake flames followed.

Kelran felt his fatigue snap away, and he sat up quickly in the saddle as if his spine had been manually straightened.

 _Please tell me that isn't what I think it is_. He pleaded mentally in a flurry of emotions and impressions. The only answer Isol gave him was a flicker of slight amusement, followed by worry and curiosity. The dragon's answer was clear; Kelran wasn't hallucinating. _Or you're just as tired as I am and we're having the same bizarre dream and are about to impact the ground. I hope the wards are strong enough to deal with the impact._ Isol didn't even deign to actively answer that with words or impressions of emotions, though their bond was still as wide open as ever. The amber-scaled dragon simply corkscrewed, knowing that Kelran disliked seeing the world spin. They were now above the city itself, heading towards the side on fire. _I guess I deserved that. I get it, no doubting your skill._ _Now what–by the long-lost glaciers!–is going on?_

 _You'd know if I had any idea besides the obvious._ Isol's sardonic, light mental voice muttered. _Buuut...that does seem to be a member of Raugmar the Black's line._ Kelran felt himself curse, referencing several ice ages. One of Isol's eventual instructors, a vitriolic, yellow-white, old female from the wild that had decided to "teach a tame, childish hatchling about how a _real_ dragon conducts him or herself," had taught him about the customs and traditions of the wild dragons as well as the immense network of lineages. If any generalizations at all could be made about dragons as individuals based on their groups, the inferences would be based on lineages. Dragons descended from the same prominent names commonly shared attitudes, flight styles, and scale coloration and patterning. The problem with this particular lineage was the attitude.

The obstinacy of Raugmar's line could do to that of a mule what the actual dragons would do to the mule itself: eat it whole, no chewing required. The farmers who complained that their animals were the most ridiculously stubborn in the world had clearly never met these dark-scaled dragons. They did not let go of grudges. They did not abandon friendships. They did not change, and, when they did, they fought it claws, teeth, and tail, and even took swipes at it with their wings. Sometimes they tried to impale it upon the spines on their backs.

The secondary problem was one that neither of the pair wanted to acknowledge. Raugmar's kin encompassed some of the finest fliers known to dragonkind. Their wings sliced through the wind itself, and they had a nearly uncanny knack for reading air currents; their aerial flexibility and ingenuity were nearly unmatched. Years later, this kind of talent would drive Vervada to challenge the storm winds of the coast to truly earn her name. If it came to a battle above Brodding...

 _It won't. It_ can't _. We will_ not _let it go that far._ The minds of Rider and Dragon synced to a yet-unachieved level, and they thought completely as one. They were almost within range in order to mentally hail the rampaging black silhouette. If the people of Brodding had done something in ignorance–people tended to be stupid about dragons–, they could help both sides understand, punish the guilty party appropriately. Perhaps this was only a misunderstanding.

Elves and dragons did not tend to lean towards religion, but if either one of them had, they would have been praying like crazy. They would have been praying in vain, a fact that they both knew deep within themselves. In Kelran's heart and Isol's heart of hearts, hope flickered like a dying flame as they reached out to speak with the livid black form as it descended for another pass of flames.

 _Fury, pain, mate_ _gone_ _, hatchling's blood on the ground. **Caparina**? **Caparina**! Two-legs did this._ They _did this._ Mental teeth dug into the attempted olive branch of the question _why_ , causing a hiss of pain from Kelran and a twitch of discomfort from Isol before they reinforced their barriers and backed away. The demented presence followed their withdrawal. _Traitor. Ally with two-legs. **Friend**_ _to two-legs? How could you? How could you! **Caparina**... _ Pain and sorrow and devastating grief blanketed soul-swallowing, pure _rage. **Enemy**... _ The voice snarled, and a black-scaled form ascended rapidly, still facing away from them, and _turned_ , an elegant banking maneuver carried out with dizzying, terrifying, sheer steepness and _speed._ Isol desperately gained altitude, not desiring at all to be run into the ground or a tower trying to dodge the imminent assault. Then the grey-black fury dove towards them, an eagle with an owl's elegance streaking towards a raven, though the gem-like coloring of the scales might have suggested otherwise. From below, there seemed to be little difference.

 _Raugmar's line. The Cutters of the Wind._ Isol barely managed to shove himself to the side in time to avoid being hit with the full force of Halhul's momentum. As it was, a claw still clipped his wing at extreme speeds, making him spin out of control for a moment before righting himself, though the smaller dragon clearly favored one wing for a moment as it dripped blood in near-boiling droplets to the streets below before Kelran managed to snap out a healing spell. He's very detailed in his chant, not wanting to take the chance that any part of the newly-healed wing be different than before it was injured. Blood circulation had to be _perfect_ , nervous connection was key. A dragon that is unable to feel even the smallest part of its wings in combat is a dead dragon, and Kelran would have _died_ –he would have _killed–,_ a thousand times over before he'd let the life of his dragon, his partner of mind and heart and _everything_ , end.

At the time of the next dive, Isol twisted his neck even as he dodged and unleashed an amber-bright inferno upon the passing form, drawing a roar–though it seemed more to be a screech–of agonized fury as scales failed to defend against the worst of the blast. Instinctual exhilaration at the small victory against a foe warred with a whisper of _regret_ in the dragon's heart of hearts. When dragons fought like this, flame and talon, fang and tail, there was no surrender. There was no retreat. It only ended when a pair of wings gave out and a single form fell from the sky.

 _Then so be it._ Kelran whispered regretfully. They would do all they could to stop it before it went too far–they _had_ done all they could to stop it from even beginning–, but in the end, they had a duty to uphold: a duty to the people of Brodding, who fled the flames and stayed out of the dueling dragons' shadows; a duty to their teachers, who had taught them to heal and to fight; and a duty to themselves as Rider and Dragon. They _would_ not fall here. They were needed elsewhere. With this last synchronized thought, they shed inhibitions like they would shake off water, wheeled around, and began to ascend further into the sky. Further from the people below. There would be no chance that their fires would touch the city.

Before the winds changed, this had not happened. Kelran and Isol had never crossed paths with Halhur before the wind had shifted. They would never have fought over Brodding; they would have healed, and they would have left, never seeing combat until Formora and her dull dragon cut them from the sky while they reeled with shock and betrayal at the fact that the Great Betrayer had _allies_ among the Rider's ranks. This time they would fight, forty years before they would have otherwise. It would change the people they would become. It would change their lives, and it would change their deaths.

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 **Thanks to all of the lovely people who reviewed this story. We went on vacation to Seattle, and I didn't bring my laptop. This was about the last thing I was thinking of until school started and reviews in my Mail inbox made me feel guilty for making you wait so long for the next chapter.**


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